“‘I’m a constable,’ says he, pulling out a pair of irons he said must go on my hands.”

“I hope he did not put them on,” interrupts the young theologian, for it is he who accompanies Tom.

“Avast!  I’ll come to that.  He said he’d only charge me five dollars for going to jail without ’em, so rather than have me calling damaged, I giv him it.  It was only a trifle.  ‘Now, Jack,’ says the fellow, as we went along, in a friendly sort of way, ’just let us pop in and see the justice.  I think a ten ‘ll get ye a clearance.’  ‘No objection to that,’ says I, and in we went, and there sat the justice, face as long and sharp as a marlinspike, in a dirty old hole, that looked like our forecastle.  ‘Bad affair this, Jack,’ says he, looking up over his spectacles.  ’You must be locked up for a year and a day, Jack.’

“‘You’ll give a sailor a hearin’, won’t ye?’ says I.  ’As to that,—­well, I don’t know, Jack; you musn’t break the laws of South Carolina when you get ashore.  You seem like a desirable sailor, and can no doubt get a ship and good wages-this is a bad affair.  However, as I’m not inclined to be hard, if you are disposed to pay twenty dollars, you can go.’  ‘Law and justice,’ says I, shaking my fist at him-’do ye take this salt-water citizen for a fool?’

“‘Take him away, Mr. Stubble-lock him up!—­lock him up!’ says the justice, and here I am, locked up, hard up, hoping.  I’d been tied up about three weeks when the justice looked in one day, and after inquiring for me, and saying, ‘good morning, Jack,’ and seeming a little by the head:  ‘about this affair of yourn, Jack,’ says he, ’now, if you’ll mind your eye when you get out—­my trouble’s worth ten dollars-and pay me, I’ll discharge you, and charge the costs to the State.’

“‘Charge the cost to the State!’ says I.  ’Do you take Spunyarn for a marine?’ At this he hauled his wind, and stood out.”

“You have had a hearing before the Grand Jury, have you not?” inquires Tom, evincing a deep interest in the story of his old friend.

“Not I. This South Carolina justice is a hard old craft to sail in.  The Grand Jury only looks in once every six months, and then looks out again, without inquiring who’s here.  And just before the time it comes round, I’m shuffled out, and just after it has left, I’m shuffled in again-fees charged to the State!  That’s it.  So here I am, a fee-making machine, bobbing in and out of jail to suit the conveniences of Mister Justice.  I don’t say this with any ill will-I don’t.”  Having concluded his story, the old sailor follows his visitors to the prison gate, takes an affectionate leave of Tom Swiggs, and returns to join his companions.  On the following day, Tom intercedes with Mr. Snivel, for it is he who thus harvests fees of the State by retaining the old sailor in prison, and procures his release.  And here, in Mr. Snivel, you have an instrument of that debased magistracy which triumphs over the weak, that sits in ignorance and indolence, that invests the hypocritical designer with a power almost absolute, that keeps justice muzzled on her throne-the natural offspring of that demon-making institution that scruples not to brunt the intellect of millions, while dragging a pall of sloth over the land.